Three Men Walk Into a Bar
by Paul Benjamin Callahan
Summary: A satirical view of the Wild, Wild, Wasteland. Three men from completely different backgrounds experience the craziness of the wastes, and end up affecting the Mojave entire.
1. Frank and the Major

**_A/N: Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout, the Fallout universe, or anything to do with Fallout. All rights belong to Bethesda and Obsidian. I am merely using their ideas as a basis for my own work. All OC's are mine._**

**_Note: This is a satire of New Vegas; IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE A SERIOUS STORY. I have changed parts of the plot line (i.e: no Courier, Boone's wife is alive) for my own amusement. I hope you enjoy! Leave a review!_**

* * *

War. War never changes.

The world ended similar to how many had predicted. . Man, since its beginning, has possessed the fire for conflict. And since, war has been waged in the name of anything; from God, resources, or simple psychotic rage. This time: resources. Many fought for them, and many died. After a millennia of armed conflict, the destructive nature of man could sustain itself no longer. On October 23, 2077, for a short two hours, man purged the world, covering it with atomic fire and radiation. Spears of nuclear fire rained from the sky, like an the wrath of an angry god. Whole continents, engulfed in fire, sank into the ocean. Humanity itself almost extinguished the flame of its own existence.

Almost.

It was not - as many had predicted - the end of the world. For when atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across the horrors of the wastes and the ruins of the old world. These survivors built new societies; establish new villages; form new tribes. Stubbornly, mankind continued.

Decades passed, and parts of the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic; a nation dedicated to the old world values of democracy and the rule of law. The Republic became a beacon of hope for those in the west; a nation which revived old American ideals; those of equal opportunity and manifest destiny. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. The military sent scouts east, seeking wealth and territory in the bleak, dry, and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. The scouts returned with magnificent tales of a city of lights; untouched by the nuclear-tipped warheads which had scorched the rest of the world. The scouts spoke also of a gigantic wall of concrete, spanning the Colorado River. The NCR mobilized its forces, and moved east; to occupy Hoover Dam, and secure the city of New Vegas.

When they arrived, they found the city already under control by a mysterious man named Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated tribals and police robots. President Aaron Kimball united with the Mojave Desert Rangers, and agreed to protect the Hoover Dam and the citizens of the Mojave Wasteland.

Across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves; forged in the greed of one man and his conquest of eighty-six tribes: Caesar's Legion. The Legion knows no master but Caesar - the self-proclaimed son of Mars. He rules with an iron fist, which extends no mercy. All lands east of the Colorado and nearly to Texas are Caesar's lands.

Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam - just barely -against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Instead, they gather their strength across the river. The fires of war burn, and training drums sound in the night. The Second Battle of Hoover Dam looms on the horizon.

Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the watchful eye of Mr. House, the casino families, and the police robots. Tourists, gamblers, and an assortment of people flock to the Strip in droves, despite the conflict at Hoover Dam.

But war; war never changes.

* * *

"Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter," observed Mike, walking behind Frank towards the Mojave Outpost.

Stopping in his tracks, Frank turned and looked oddly at his best friend. "What?"

"Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter," Mike repeated.

"What do you mean?" cried Frank in exasperation.

"Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter," reflected Mike as he continued walking towards the open gate. Frank watched him walk. He never noticed it, but Mike paled in comparison to most soldiers. He couldn't shoot straight, couldn't run fast, and all he did was get that weird feeling when he would announce that there was an enemy ahead. Most times, the enemy did not exist. Mike also had a tendency to say random things and never explain them. Frank watched Mike stop at the gate, and talk to a sergeant with a full beard. He could make out their conversation. "Patrolling the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter, doesn't it?"

The sergeant looked at Mike. "Or the Legion. They'll overrun us any day now, you know."

Mike broke from his trance. "The Legion?"

"Yeah, Caesar's," the sergeant at the gate told him, a bit surprised because this trooper didn't know about Caesar's Legion.

"Caesar's Legion?" Mike asked, dumbfounded. "Huh. What a weird name," his voice trailed off and he walked inside to the Mojave Outpost. Frank chuckled and started forward to the gate. He waved to the sergeant. who's name on his fatigues read "Kilborn."

"Greetings soldier," Kilborn returned his wave. "Make yourself comfortable, because odds are you'll be here awhile. No one ever gets an assignment here because Jackson won't let anybody leave. But don't worry about that, because any day now the Legion is going to come down that road and overrun us. Just a matter of time now..." Kilborn nervously chuckled and resumed guarding the gate.

"Which way is the administration building?" Frank asked, slightly unnerved.

Kilborn pointed to the second building inside the gate. Two buildings made up the Mojave Outpost: an admin building, and Frank guessed the other housed the troops. Frank nodded thanks and began walking towards the admin building. Kilborn mumbled something about the Legion overrunning their position and continued watching the road which led to Nipton Highway and the valley that was the Mojave Desert.

As Frank walked around the sandbags protecting the door, he noticed Mike walk into the barracks building. Sighing, he figured he would be forced to sign for Mike as well.

When he opened the admin door, he knew that he hated the man behind the counter.

The man didn't look up, instead he readied a pen over a ledger. "Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or...?" his voice labored with each word. Frank thought it reminded him of his teachers back in California. Monotonous and condescending.

"I'm a soldier," Frank announced to the man. He wore the markings of a major, and his name read "Knight" on the front of his fatigues. A green beret sat on his head.

Major Knight looked up, and Frank was sure that Major Knight hated Frank as much as Frank hated Major Knight. His eyes glistened with discontent and evil anger. His small features shouted curses at Frank as he stood in front of the counter. "You're not a soldier," Knight spoke monotonously. "You're just another poor fool who got shipped out here to sit around and do nothing all day," the major looked him over, from head to toe, his eyes locking in on the blue beret on Frank's head. "You Special Forces?" Knight sneered.

Frank reached up and removed his beret, revealing tousled black hair. "Yes, sir."

Knight's eyes narrowed. "What're you doing here then?"

Running a hand through his hair, Frank nervously explained. "Major, I was sent as a punishment for disobeying a direct order from my commanding officer, Colonel Hsu. I was demoted from the rank of Captain to First Lieutenant."

"That's quite a punishment, soldier. Oh well, what's your name? Need something for the logbook."

"First Lieutenant Frank S. Robertson, sir. Reporting for duty," Frank saluted.

For a second, an awkward silence lingered. Major Knight stared as Frank held his salute. Finally, he wrote something in his log. Frank thought he heard a small giggle.

"Lieutenant, the first thing you need to know is that there is no duty here. The only thing you need to report to is the bar in the barracks, like all the other soldiers."

"I don't get an assignment?" asked Frank, bewildered.

This time Knight did laugh, a deep booming one. "Soldier, no one gets an assignment here. Ranger Jackson won't let anybody leave. Says the road is too dangerous. If you have a problem, take it up with him in his office," Frank followed Knight's pointing arm down a hallway. He looked in each doorway until he saw a man wearing a brown cowboy hat, a red bandana and blue buttoned up shirt. An ammunition bandolier draped from one soldier to the other.

"Ranger Jackson, I presume?" Frank saluted. From the front, he heard Knight laugh again. This time, Frank knew that Major Knight wanted to kill him just as much as Frank wanted to kill Major Knight. And if Major Knight didn't stop laughing, he would kill him.

"Soldier can't you see I'm busy?" he motioned at his office. Looking around, Frank saw a steaming cup of coffee on a small table in front of a couch. Beside the mug of coffee was a small bottle filled with whiskey, and a copy of Patriot's Cookbook. No papers covered his desk, and his terminal was off.

Frank looked at Ranger Jackson skeptically. "Sir, it doesn't look like you're busy at all."

Ranger Jackson looked around. "Oh, it does appear that I am not busy at all. I could've sworn I was doing something. Probably plotting how to make Major Knight's life miserable..." his voice grew quiet, and Frank looked around. No one was in the doorway.

"You don't like the major?" whispered Frank.

"No, I think he's a great soldier and even better log-keeper. Actually, I'm pretty sure he lives and breaths for that logbook of his only."

"So why do you want to make Major Knight's life miserable?" asked Frank, confused.

"Did I say that?" Ranger Jackson put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "I must've meant everybody except Major Knight," Frank tried to understand, but soon put Ranger Jackson's words behind him. He couldn't get over how Ranger Jackson wore his aviator glasses inside.  
"Major Knight told me that no one here gets assignments," Frank said before things got out of hand. From the lobby, Major Knight laughed again, and Frank knew he would have to die.

"That's right," Ranger Jackson asserted. "No one gets assigned anything here, because the road is too dangerous. And the road is going to keep being dangerous until I send someone to take care of it."

"Well, why don't you send someone to clean it up?" asked Frank, confused.

"Because the road is too dangerous!" Major Knight yelled from the lobby.

"Because the road is too dangerous," Ranger Jackson quipped.

Confused, Frank collapsed onto the couch. "But sir," he cried, not really wanting to argue, "isn't it ironic that we get sent out here and stationed here but don't do anything? What's the point of being out here?"

Ranger Jackson stopped in his tracks, and Frank knew he had made a point. Ranger Jackson stared intently at him. "Soldier, where's your weapon?" he finally asked. Major Knight laughed again. Frank leaned back on the couch, defeated. But, it seemed, Ranger Jackson had caught his second wind. He paced back and forth in front of his couch. "If you don't have a weapon, that means you didn't get issued one. That means we'll be under capacity on weapons!" Frank tuned him out. Ranger Jackson rambled on about stealing weapons and communism and somehow interconnected the two. Ranger Jackson summarized that, because they wouldn't have enough weapons, the government would have to control the flow between all bases. This would cause the military to become communists. Then, he moved onto bigger topics. "Major Knight won't be able to keep the logbook correctly! They'll remove us all from here, and put us somewhere like Camp Forlorn Hope! We would be on the front lines! Why don't you have a weapon, soldier?"

Frank thought of an excuse, when really, he had traded his standard-issue service rifle to a drifter outside Sloan for fifty bottlecaps and a ham sandwich. "I traded it for fifty caps and a ham sandwich," he blurted out. Ranger Jackson stopped pacing and stared at him.

"A ham sandwich?" he asked.

Nodding, Frank reached into his musette bag and pulled it out. The sandwich, wrapped in a thin paper, smelled like the sandwiches Ranger Jackson remembered back home. Without thinking, Ranger Jackson grabbed the sandwich from Frank, who's eyes flew wide open. "Just go get Knight to check the inventory. I'll take your sandwich as...payment," mumbled Ranger Jackson between bites of ham sandwich. He gulped down the last two bites in one swallow, rushed over to his office window, kicked it out, and jumped outside. The sounds of his footfalls on the dust could be heard from inside.

Frank sat on the couch and listened to Ranger Jackson scurry away. Sighing, he walked back to the front lobby. "Ranger Jackson wants you to check the inventory for any spare weapons," he told Major Knight. The man flipped a few pages in the ledger, ran his finger down, and then walked around a small partition behind the counter. Frank heard the sound of boxes being moved and one being opened. Major Knight returned with a metal pole. However, on top of this metal pole was a neon sign that read "Take a break!" The sign functioned somewhat; the "Nuka" lit up yellow, while the other words remained a faded white. The words sat on a red background next to a picture of a Nuka Cola bottle. A red light outlined the entire sign. Upon further inspection, Frank saw that a wire wrapped around the pole, and went inside it on the bottom. Wrapped around the bottom, for a makeshift grip, was a lot of duct tape.

Major Knight smiled as he handed the sign to Frank. "This is the only weapon we have on base. Other than a few carbines and switchblades, of course!"

Frank, skeptically, swung his new sign a few times. Finally, he nodded and walked out.

Once outside, he hefted his sign. Examining it, he saw the words "Nuka Breaker" etched into the back near where the wire entered the sign. He gave a slight chuckle. From his musette bag he produced a leather belt. Carefully, he tied one end to the base of the pole, and the other end to the top near where the sign attached. He slung the sign - which he then christened Nuke-Breaker - over his back.

He only took two steps before the unthinkable happened.

On his third step, he slammed his right foot into the corner of the sandbags. Three toes popped inside his boot, and Frank collapsed in pain. He hit his nose on the ground and yelped when it popped. Immediately, he began rolling on the ground, writhing in pain and screaming. Major Knight ran out of the admin building and crouched over him. He tried keeping Frank still, but Frank would have none of getting killed his first day on the job.

"Oh, God!" he screamed, convulsing in agony from his broken nose and jammed toes. "It's you! First day here and you already try to kill me! God, I'm dying! Someone help!"

"Now stop that," Major Knight told him. He tried placing his hands on Frank's shoulders, but Frank swatted them away.

"Don't you touch me! Haven't you done enough? Can't you see you've already murdered me with your logbook?"

A crowd had begun to gather. Ranger Jackson, with crumbs from a recent ham sandwich, had run around the corner of the admin building. Mike and a crowd of soldiers from the bar/barracks had run outside too. Kilborn ran over, shouting "Legion!" all the way, until he realized the screaming came from the man Major Knight was attempting to strangle.

"Medic!" cried Frank when Major Knight tried to touch him again. "Assassinated by my own army!"

"Shut up you fool, or I will kill you with my logbook!" Major Knight told him.

"Major Knight," Ranger Jackson said as he wiped bread crumbs from his face, "why are you strangling the new guy?"

"I'm not!" yelled Major Knight when he looked back at Ranger Jackson. "He tripped and broke his nose and I'm trying to get him to stop rolling around so we can check the damage. See, his nose is bleeding!" he pointed. Sure enough, a small trickle of blood ran from Frank's nose and down his face.

"Just let me bleed out! I'm already dying!"

"Let 'em off, Knight," demanded Ranger Jackson. Major Knight, deflated, sat back on his knees. Frank continued his thrashing for a few seconds until he was certain that he was not dying. When he was sure of this, he looked around at the crowd, and then at Major Knight, who had his hand outstretched. And Frank's first rule was: never let an opportunity slip by.

Leaning back, Frank propelled his body forward, and threw his right fist straight out in a jab that caught Major Knight square on the nose. The crowd went "Ooooooh" and Major Knight hit the dirt hard. Ranger Jackson started clapping. Frank stood up, dusted himself off, and looked down at his victim. Major Knight lay on the ground seeing stars. A small trickle of blood flowed from his nose. He looked up at Frank.

"Nice shot, you sure you really need that sign?" he laughed. Ranger Jackson helped him up, and the two were sent over to the barracks to be looked at. Major Knight looked over at Frank, and gave him a friendly nod. Frank glared at him.

And that was when Frank knew he was the very antithesis of Major Knight, and Major Knight knew he was the very antithesis of Frank.


	2. Welcome to the Mojave

Normally, Daniel would curse his bad luck, but if he stopped now he would most certainly die. And dying did not seem fun at all. The group of five raiders behind him would love it, though. Mainly because they would get to take his duffle bag. And for the past three months, that duffle bag had been his survival.

Daniel couldn't remember the last time he had feared for his life. But that didn't matter, because he was fearing now. The raiders had ambushed him as he neared the opening of a small canyon heading southeast along Interstate 15. Burnt-out skeletons of cars had littered the highway, and the raiders had planted frag mines under some. In fact, Daniel knew the mine would have gotten him if he had not heard the beeping noise. He barely had enough time to throw himself to the ground when it exploded. A few pieces of shrapnel had embedded themselves in his right leg, which made running a pain. But Daniel didn't mind.

He thought they had just passed into the Mojave Desert valley, but he couldn't be certain because it was around two in the morning. Up ahead, a neon aura of light shone into the night sky. Those lights were the only reason Daniel was here, and not back in Caliente as the town sheriff; Vegas.

Caliente had served Daniel well in his four years there. Originally from Arroyo, in Oregon, Daniel had moved to Caliente with his late wife. When the sheriff was murdered by a bandit gang, Daniel had volunteered to go after them. Along with the deputy, the two had ventured to the gang's hideout, and brought them all in. The deupty, not wanting the responsibility, had asked Daniel to take over as sheriff. And he had held that position until two months ago, when the tales of Vegas had persuaded him to hang up his hat and badge and pursue riches in Sin City. His wife had caught a disease nearly a year ago, and it took nearly all the stimpaks the local clinic had to keep her alive for a month. She loved Caliente, but she loved Daniel more, and would have wanted him to be happy.

So, Daniel had packed his duffle bag and headed southeast. His blasted .308 rifle and duffle bag weighed him down, and it didn't help that he had shrapnel in his leg. Only two of the raiders carried guns, he could tell by the rate of fire coming at him. Bullets sliced past him at an alarming rate, and Daniel guessed these raiders were past the point of negotiation.

If he turned quick enough, he figured he could pull his Sig Sauer, 12.7 millimeter pistol from his hip holster, and maybe get a few shots off. But the sudden change in movement would throw him off, and he would be dead faster than they would. He was a crack shot with both his .308 and Sig, but he couldn't draw worth his injured leg.

Daniel almost laughed, but he was too out of breath. It was ironic, really. Travelers through Caliente had told tales of the city of lights, gambling, and drinks. A paradise in the wastes. But, in his short five minutes in the Mojave, people were already trying to kill him. Daniel wondered how the raiders had gotten the jump on him; normally he would have scoped out ambushes. Maybe, since he'd been out a sheriff job for two months, his combat senses had dulled. Or, maybe he was just lazy. Daniel figured it was the latter.

The bullets slowed their relentless pace, and then they stopped. Daniel didn't dare turn. He still heard the footsteps of the five raiders, and now their voice echoed greater.

"He's fast!"

"Not fast enough, here, take some of this!"

"Give me that!"

"You got a light for this stuff?"

"Yeah, pass it around!"

Again, Daniel almost laughed. He thought it was hilarious that they were smoking mid-chase. But, he realized with a sickening horror that the raiders needed a light for something much more dangerous than smokes. Dynamite.

The sizzle of fuses filled the air, and Daniel ran faster. He pumped both legs and tried his best to forget about the throb in his right. Things started hitting the ground near him, and soon explosions tore through the canyon. One lifted Daniel from his feet, depositing him five yards ahead of his current position. He landed, hard, on his right ankle, and he knew instantly that he sprained it. But he didn't have time to worry about that.

Rolling, he shrugged his duffle bag off. It rolled a few yards away. Daniel reached down his right side and pulled his pistol from its holster. He spun backwards and raised it. The raiders were upon him, and Daniel fired twice before a raider hit his gun out of his hand with a tire iron. _Who fights with a tire iron? _Daniel thought, smiling wickedly to himself. Both of his shots hit one of the raiders in the chest. He convulsed on the ground, bleeding out onto the hard concrete. Daniel hadn't noticed, but it had become very cold in the past few minutes. What month was it? November? That sounded about right.

"You're very hard to kill, you know that?" one of the raiders, a pale-faced, thin man with a green mohawk said. His cheeks sagged, and Daniel could smell the alcohol on him.

"It's a gift," Daniel shrugged, and smiled weakly. The raider, however, didn't think Daniel was funny, and gave him a swift kick in the ribs. Daniel lay back on the concrete, and resigned, ready to die.

Suddenly, five loud gunshots first caught Mohawk-Man in the leg, sending him falling to the ground. The raiders barely had time to react, because the next three hit them with deadly accuracy - in either the head or chest. Each died instantly. Mohawk-Man lay clutching his leg. Daniel looked around for the source.

Behind him, silhouetted against the neon lights of Vegas, stood a man in a tan trench coat. A dark brown fedora sat atop his head. The stranger did not seem to be a very remarkable man. Daniel placed him at six feet. His air of mysteriousness was the remarkable thing; that, and the smoldering .44 magnum revolver he carried.

Slowly, the man walked forward. He passed by Daniel with barely a glance, instead standing above the writhing raider. Seeing him, the raider stopped his convulsions and held up his hands. When the strange man spoke, his voice was soft, but assertive.

"I fired five shots, punk, no question about it. Looks like your luck just ran out," the man told the raider quietly, and Daniel would've sworn he heard the raider whimper. The stranger's voice had a quiet edge to it which added to the man's menace. Slowly, the man raised the .44, and fired his last shot. It struck the raider between the eyes with a sickening squelch, causing his head to slam into the pavement. The stranger cooly popped the cylinder out, and reloaded each chamber by hand. He spun it once, and popped it back in.

"Uh, thanks," Daniel told him. He tried to stand. Instead, he fell back down. The stranger walked over to him.

"Don't stand. You're ankle is either strained or broken, and you've got some major shrapnel wounds. First thing's first, I'm going to give you some pain-reliever," he handed Daniel a syringe of Med-X. Without question, Daniel injected his leg, and almost instantly the pain subsided. "Good. Now, I need to take you somewhere safe. The middle of the highway is no place to give medical attention. Can you walk?"

"I believe that I am over-encumbered and cannot run," observed Daniel. Grimly, the mysterious stranger nodded. And with a swift arm movement, punched Daniel in the face. Daniel hit the concrete, knocked out stone cold.

Quickly, the man slipped into Daniel's duffle bag, grabbed Daniel, and hefted him over his shoulder. He started off down the highway, towards Vegas.

When Daniel awoke a few hours later, he first realized that his face hurt pretty bad. Then he found himself in a bed, and not on the ground or dumped in a ditch. A thin sheet covered his sore body. Light filtered through a boarded-up window. Silence filled the room.

"Oh," a voice to his side said. "You're awake. Good, for a second I thought I hit you too hard."

Daniel turned his head, and stared at the strange man in the trench coat. "Where am I?" he asked.

The stranger stood from his chair and walked into over to a large wardrobe. "In a small house, about a mile north of Freeside. Don't worry about the owners; no one has lived here in probably two hundred years."

"I wasn't really concerned. In fact, I make it my job _not _to be concerned," the man looked at him strangely, from around the door of the wardrobe. "Don't worry about it. What I want to know is why people are trying to kill me."

Closing the door, the stranger produced a pair of thick pants and a long brown duster. He handed them to Daniel and sat back down. "A lot of people are killing others. Raiders especially."

Daniel sat up on the bed. "Well, yeah, but this is Vegas. Isn't everybody supposed to be friendly in Vegas?"

The man looked at Daniel blankly. "No. Quite the opposite, really. Look, just put this stuff on. It'll do more than the whole 'roving trader' look you got going."

Looking at the duster and the pants, Daniel scoffed. "You think I'm some sort of cowboy, bud?"

The man tipped his hat and stood. "Just do it. Don't bother following me, because I'll be long gone in about five minutes." Daniel stood, grimacing as his leg throbbed viciously. He shrugged into the duster, and replaced his pants with the thick ones.

"Where will you go? Who are you?" Daniel asked when the stranger reached the door.

Turning, the stranger was once more a silhouette in the light. "I don't really have a name. And as to where I go? I mainly just wander...kind of like you. I try to roam; helping those who need it. Kind of like you," once more he tipped his fedora, and walked out with the door closing behind him.

Daniel fought the urge to run out and follow him. He didn't because he was tired, and his leg hurt. In fact, he fought the greater urge to lay back down and go to sleep. Instead, he found his weapons against the wall. As he slipped his pistol into its holster and his rifle onto his back, he walked out of the small house.

Nothing. The man in the trench coat was nowhere to be seen. Daniel walked a few yards forward, toward Vegas, and turned a full circle. The man wasn't even a shape on the horizon. He was gone. And Daniel didn't mind; the fellow had been a mysterious stranger.

* * *

Freeside was a dump. Daniel knew that the instant he entered from the north gate. Trash littered the street. Thugs lined the buildings and offered the latest product to weary travelers. A man with dirt caked skin had set up a booth on one side of the road, selling various types of meat on a stick. Daniel didn't dare ask what the meat was. He preferred squirrel stew anyway. The lights of Vegas cut through the late night sky.

Across from the strange meat vendor stood a line of men. Two of them wore leather jackets, and Daniel could smell the hair product they wore. He could see it too; their slicked back hair glistened in the sunlight. The hair stuff smelled like alcohol, strawberries, and silver polish. Daniel walked straight up to one of the fools and sniffed his hair.

No; that definitely _was _silver polish.

Ignoring the confused looks from the passersby, Daniel stepped back and looked at both men in the leather jackets. The words "The Kings" in big white type played across the backs.

"Did you know that you're wearing silver polish in your hair?" he asked.

The Kings member looked at him like he was crazy; which in all probability, Daniel could be. "Boy, you cruisin' for a bruisin'?"

Daniel splayed his hands out to his sides. "No, I swear, there's silver polish in your hair."

His friend sniffed him. "Pace, he ain't kiddin'. I think you got some silver polish in your hair," and Daniel left the two there, arguing about the silver polish in their hair. He kept walking south, towards the skyline of Vegas. On his left, a huge monstrosity of a building sat right in the middle of Freeside. A sign outside read "Old Mormon Fort."

An old bus led into the business section of Freeside. The "fun" part of town, one casino, was on his right, under different colored lights that read "Freeside." The only casino left in Freeside was the Atomic Wrangler; basically a hole in the wall.

The Kings' safehouse, the "Kings School of Impersonation" sat on the corner a few blocks down from the Strip. Pictures of a man holding a guitar lined the outer walls. He too had silver polish in his hair, and sang into a can.

Daniel didn't care, he kept walking towards a gate at the southern end of Freeside. The gate read "New Vegas Strip," and was guarded by four securitron-class police robots. These metal refrigerators rolled on a single wheel, and a giant screen projected the face of a policeman. One rolled over to Daniel as he approached the gate.

"Submit to a credit check or present a passport to gain entrance to the Strip," demanded the robot in a stern, military voice.

"Credit check?" asked Daniel. "How much?"

"Two thousand caps!" it asserted.

"What if I don't have them?"

"Well, uh..." the robot, caught off guard, forgot what it was programmed to say. "I guess you can't get in."

"I travel for two months, and I can't get in?" Daniel had no words.

"Yeah. If you want, the Atomic Wrangler is basically everything you won't find in Vegas, just not there. Or the NCR has a soup kitchen around the corner."

Daniel decided to go to the soup kitchen. Why pay for dinner when you could have it given to you? He walked down Las Vegas Boulevard and turned right on Fremont Street, past the Atomic Wrangler. Walking through a dilapidated house, he turned left and found himself across from the railroad depot. Two guards stood on either side of a small shop.

"What's the password?" one of the guards at the door asked. Daniel sighed.

"Look guys," he started, "I don't want any trouble. I just rolled in, I barely have enough for a room tonight. And I really don't feel like sending you back to California in a coffin. Could you cut me some slack?" pleaded Daniel. He was hungry; he just wanted some squirrel stew.

"Are you an NCR citizen?" asked the guard on the right, a tall black man wearing a leather vest.

"Yes, born and raised in Arroyo."

"Then you could pass a citizenship test?"

"You kidding? No, fine, I'll take your stupid test."

"It's just three questions. Who was the most popular president, what is the capital, and what is the animal on the flag?"

Daniel scoffed. This was a _citizenship_ test? Anyone with sub-standard intelligence could answer these.

"The most popular president was definitely Tandi. The capital is Shady Sands, and the animal on the flag is a two-headed bear. Let me in, fools," Daniel shoved his way past the two and into the small corner store.

Inside, people of an assortment of ages, genders, and all shapes and sizes filled the open room. They formed a single line that wove from the door, along a counter, and back out again. NCR mercenaries worked the counter. A woman, their leader presumably, did most of the talking.

"How are you?" she asked Daniel when he sauntered up to the counter.

"Hungry," confessed Daniel.

"Well take what you want, and spread the word: the NCR wants to help the people of Freeside," she told him.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Lose the guards then, lady. And offer this to all of their citizens, not just the ones from the NCR. Filthy hypocrites. You're no better than the gangsters with silver polish in their hair," the mercenary looked offended as Daniel took a bowl of steaming squirrel stew and a bottle of clean water and walked out.

"See ya fellas," he told the guards outside. "Have fun terrorizing the kiddies," both guards waved.

He walked back the way he came, through the house and past the Atomic Wrangler. When he turned back on Las Vegas Boulevard, he sat down in front of an old steakhouse, and began to eat his squirrel stew with a plastic spoon. He didn't notice the two Kings walk up until they stood over him. He took a bite of stew and looked up at them.

"Need something?" he asked.

The King on the right responded by kicking his squirrel stew. It toppled over, and the hot stew splashed Daniel in his face, neck, and chest. In a split second, the two fell on him. Both repeatedly kicked and punched him in the face and sides. Daniel could only hold his hands up in vain defense as the two landed their blows.

As quick as they started, the two ceased their assault. Daniel lay on the ground, his whole body aching from their beating. The Kings stood over his limp body, bathed by the Vegas lights. One bent and picked his water bottle up. He unscrewed the cap and poured it on Daniel, being sure to soak his entire body. Too lazy to fight back, Daniel lay there motionless.

"The King doesn't like your kind around here, soldier boy," one King said with his drawl. "You NCR folk are ruinin' this town. Get lost, or we'll pay you another visit."

The two walked off as fast as they had come, leaving Daniel to wonder where the fun part about Vegas was. Everyone had been rude to him except the mysterious stranger, and he was gone. Daniel would probably never see him again. And now, the Kings thought he was a squatter from the NCR. But he didn't mind, because he was good at squatting.

And that is how Daniel spent his first night in Vegas: laying on the ground beaten; the only thing he could smell being squirrel stew and silver polish.


	3. Hank and the Colorado River

**A/N: Though this is a satire of New Vegas, the character introduced in this chapter is probably the most serious part of the story. At least, he tries to be. Thanks for the feedback I've gotten so far, leave a review and enjoy!**

* * *

Looking upon the scene at the arena, Hank did not know how he felt about it all. During the six years he had spent in the Legion, he still never ventured on those nights the arena bell rang out and the populace watched the fights in the arena. Especially on nights when the slaves fought. On those terrible, dreary nights Hank made it his goal to not leave his tent, because the roar of the arena dominated nearly every other sound on Fortification Hill. But tonight, something had driven him from his tent, and now he found himself among the spectators.

Hank, known around the Legion as simply "Apollo," had been a slave at birth. His family had lived in Arizona and had all watched horribly one morning as the Legion flew into town. Everyone was enslaved. His mother gave birth to him two months later. For fifteen years, all Hank had known was slavery. But, when he turned sixteen, Joshua Graham came and examined the slave boys his age. He chose the strong ones, and put them through the rigorous training to become legionaries. After initiated as a recruit, Hank - now Apollo - had joined the ranks of the scouts. Quickly, he soon became a veteran scout, and finally the rank of explorer. In 2275, soon after the Legion's victory over the NCR at Fort Aradesh, Apollo had been the first legionary to lay his eyes on the Mojave, Hoover Dam, and the neon lights of Vegas. Being an explorer, Apollo - Hank - generally never fought in the huge battles. He was absent at the First Battle of Hoover Dam, but he still saw Caesar light Joshua Graham on fire and throw him into the Grand Canyon. Hank also knew that Joshua Graham had walked out of the Grand Canyon, and now was somewhere in Utah.

Since he never fought, and actually mostly spent his time away from Legion camps and Legion battles, Hank never saw the atrocities committed at the hands of Caesar, his new Legate Lanius, and the centurions. All he knew was the things he saw during his enslavement. And he remembered.

The arena bell rang out close to midnight. An unnatural feeling had come over him as he lay on his bedroll. He stayed in the long red tent that housed all of the explorers. On a normal night, only a few explorers stayed in Fortification Hill. Tonight, there were three. The other two were sound asleep, conserving energy for assignments the next day. Hank tried to sleep and forget the sound of the arena bell. All of a sudden, curiosity overwhelmed him, and he found watching the grisly scene come to an end, as the arena prepared for its final fight of the evening.

A slave stepped in on one end, wielding a short, flat machete. He wore dirty rags, no shoes, and his entire body looked like it was caked in dirt. Which, for all intents and purposes, he probably was. The man couldn't be no more than twenty.

Across from him, recruit legionaries stepped out with long, broad machetes. Each looked hesitant. Hank guessed they were fresh out of training, and the Legate was forcing them to kill in the arena. He figured that the slave hadn't made the cut to join the ranks of the legionaries.

The participants in the arena waited for no announcement. They never needed one. At once, the legionaries began spreading out, two moving to circle the slave while the middle man stayed straight in front of him.

Hank watched in grim fascination as the slave turned, machete raised. The young man waited for someone to make a move. To his side, one of the recruits lunged, raising his broad bladed machete high above his head. The slave dropped to the dirt and rolled to his left, away from the sweep of the blade. Spectators - slaves and legionaries alike - roared in satisfaction as the slave jumped up and kicked the legionary with his heel. Backing away in a shuffle, the slave bounced from one foot to the other. He held his machete with both hands, like the recruits were taught.

Beside him, Hank heard the shuffle of feet. He had situated himself on a high rise above the arena. Onlookers sat everywhere around the arena and on the hill where Hank stood. Turning his head, he saw a recruit legionary standing next to him, looking at him from behind thick, black goggles and red face wrap.

The legionary raised his hand in a flat palm, "Ave. True to Caesar!" he recited.

Squinting his eyes at the strange new man, Hanks sighed. Never, even during his enslavement, had he understood the Legion. Their pronunciation of Caesar, for instance. Instead of the Anglican "si-zar", the members of the Legion say "kaizar." Hank had missed his own induction into the Legion's ranks, because of an awful ailment the Legion physicians called a "cold."

"True to whom?" asked Hank.

"Who?" the legionary repeated.

"No, whom?"

"Caesar!" announced the flustered recruit.

"True to Caesar? What is true to Caesar?"

The man didn't speak for a few minutes, so Hank resumed watching the fight. Nothing much had changed. The crowd had begun to yell louder and angrier, frustrated that the recruits had failed to kill the slave. However, they had pinned the man close to the wall, and circled like vultures. One sprang forward and stabbed his machete forward. The slave sidestepped him and swung his own blade sideways. It sliced the legionary across the chest. He wailed in frustration and collapsed, and the slave finished him with a blow in the throat.

Finally, the recruit turned once again to Hank. "Everything is true to Caesar, he is our lord!"

"That may be true, but is he everyone's lord?"

"He is the Legion's lord!"

"But not everyone's," Hank told him.

"Yes, everyone," countered the legionary.

Hank eyed him peculiarly. "Then where is everyone?"

Frustrated, the legionary raised his hand in the flat palm. "Ave, true to Caesar!" and stormed off.

The crowd roared as the slave tripped and fell on his face. In an instant, the two legionaries fell on him. They each alternated blows, their machetes falling into with them. They struck the slave in his back. Hank grimaced when he noticed the man never once let out a yelp. Legionaries alike jumped up and down in grand celebration. After awhile, the two fighters stepped back from their kill. Raising their bloody machetes, the crowd went nuts. Hank never took his eyes from the slave, who lay in a pool of his own blood. The crowd began to disperse.

When they had returned to their tents, Hank walked to the man's body in the arena. The arena was cleaned by slaves the morning after. Now, they mourned their fallen comrade. Frowning, Hank observed the slave. Slim rags caked in dirt barely covered the man. Blood from his many cut wounds had run out and pooled around him. Hank removed his boots, revealing nothing more than red rags. He slipped the boots onto the slaves feet; choosing to let the man die with dignity.

Frankly, Hank felt disgusted. With the Legion, with that recruit for reciting Caesar's pledge, and at himself for coming to the arena tonight. But, he couldn't stop any of it. Being the top explorer, he had duties to perform. And Hank knew that if he had any other position, he would have opted for slavery. If that were the case, he probably would be lying face down in his own blood in the arena by now.

Hank's tent lay a few yards away from the edge of the cliffs. Below, the Colorado River rushed by. One hundred yards upriver was Hoover Dam, and the NCR. The water below sounded vicious, but Hank's mind began to wander. He figured that the Legion would crush the NCR at the next battle for Hoover Dam, whenever that was. If that happened, nothing would stand between Caesar and Vegas. And when the Legion reached Vegas, he reckoned they would spend their time raping, pillaging, and killing many of the Vegas tourists and residents. The rest would be sold to slavery.

The biggest question was whether the NCR would allow him to defect. No, the first real question - Hank figured - was whether or not he would survive to see the NCR. No, the first real biggest question - Hank knew - was whether he would survive the fall. There seemed to exist no other alternative. The river would have to suffice.

Making sure his .44 revolver and binoculars were holstered and secure on his person, he removed his shoulder padded armor and helmet. The goggles he wiped on his red linen sleeve, and just realized that was futile because it was about to be wet.

When he figured everything to be perfect, he took a few steps and walked over the cliff edge, plummeting toward the river below.


	4. The Communist on Trial

Nipton fell in October. Ranger Ghost ran down to tell Ranger Jackson while he ate lunch with Major Knight. Panting, she leaned on the door frame of the small office.

"There's smoke rising above Nipton. I think it's Legion, sir," she reported. Ranger Jackson and Major Knight exchanged a worried glance, and then Ranger Jackson followed Ghost out of the admin building. Major Knight calmly walked back to his desk and opened his ledger.

Sure enough, when Ranger Jackson looked through Ghost's binoculars down Nipton Highway directly downhill from the outpost, multiple billows of smoke rose above the town of Nipton.

"Go tell Major Knight to call Camp McCarran. Tell him we need some reinforcements; we are now the front lines," ordered Ranger Jackson. Ghost took a deep swallow, and ran to relay his orders. Sergeant Kilborn had overheard.

"I knew it! We'll be overrun in no time!" he began to yell. Kilborn ran to the barracks door and kicked it open. Bright morning light spilled inside, which lay barren except for Lacey the bartender, Frank, Mike, a few soldiers, a caravan crew, and a pretty lady who nobody knew much about.

Frank shielded his eyes from the light. He sat closest to the pretty lady. "What're you yelling about?"

Kilborn lowered his arms and looked at him. "The Legion overran Nipton last night."

Everyone in the bar jolted awake, even the pretty lady and her caravan friends. "Nipton? That's less than ten miles away," observed Frank. Beside him, Mike coughed nervously.

That same month, Lee arrived.

Corporal Lee Roberts from Junktown, and a part of the fighting 21st Infantry Division. He arrived with a message saying that Nipton had fallen. The brass at McCarran informed the soldiers at Mojave Outpost that a squad would be dispatched as soon as they got back from their bathroom break. Colonel James Hsu informed them that the food at McCarran was not the best.

From the moment Kilborn opened the gate for him, everyone knew Lee was fresh out of basic training. His uniform looked crisp and freshly starched. Both the service rifle on his back and the .45 pistol on his belt had been cleaned before shipping out, Frank knew. His face didn't have a spot of facial hair, and he smelled like aftershave. The boy was young, and everyone knew it.

"Where you from, boy?" Frank asked him when he sat next to him at the bar.

"Junktown, born and raised, sir! My pa sells jerky there," announced Lee with a big smile on his face. Frank wondered if the book _Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor_ was based on Lee's father.

But Mike wanted to ask a question. "Why'd you join the army?"

"So I could make money and kill Legion scum, sir!"

Frank turned to him. "Lee, you don't have to call him 'sir,' he's just a gunny," instructed Frank to the new kid. Mike slumped in his chair.

"Say," began Lee, "who is the commanding officer around here, anyway?"

The bartender, Lacey, walked over and refilled Frank's glass with scotch. "Some people say it's Ranger Jackson. Others insist that it's Major Knight. But really, we don't have a commanding officer."

"And don't listen to anything Major Knight tells you," Frank told the confused corporal. "He's a communist."

"Really?" Lee's eyes opened wide. A collective gasp went up from the bar, and everyone turned to Frank in astonishment.

"That's right, folks," Frank stood and addressed the mass, "Major Knight is a communist, but no one except me knows it. He wants to use that log of his to take all our weapons and redistribute them to the squad they got coming in from McCarran. In fact, I was just about to go arrest him."

"You go get that red commie!" a soldier yelled from the barracks room. Ranger Jackson had walked in and heard Frank's remarks. He caught Frank and Mike as they were walking out of the bar.

"That true, boy?" he asked.

"Every word, sir," Mike and Frank said simultaneously.

Ranger Jackson hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "Well then, lets go arrest us a commie,"

* * *

Major Knight's office was right across the hallway from Ranger Jackson's. Frank opened the door and held it for Ranger Jackson, who had his handcuffs out.

Major Knight looked up from his log. "Morning, Ranger Jackson. Same to you, fellas" he nodded politely. Ranger Jackson walked behind the desk and pulled out his handcuffs.

"None of that, Major Communist," declared Ranger Jackson assertively. Major Knight frowned in confusion.

"I have no idea of what you speak, ranger," confessed Knight, "but then again, I normally don't."

"Frank here told me all about your little plan, Little Karl."

"And what _is_ my plan, if I may ask?"

"Sorry, you can't ask," ordered Ranger Jackson.

Resigned to the will of Ranger Jackson, Major Knight pursued the subject no further. Frank and Mike stood by, waiting for orders. "Lieutenant, I'm going to take this red scum out the window stealthily, just so nobody sees him. Then, I'm going to take him into the barracks so everyone can see him."

"What do you want me to do, sir?" asked Frank, frowning.

"I want you to set up an impromptu tribunal for this filth," quipped Ranger Jackson as he opened his office window.

"A tribunal, sir?"

"A tribunal, sir,"

Frank and Mike saluted. "Aye, sir!" they both turned and filed out when Ranger Jackson shoved Major Knight through the window. Forgetting he had handcuffed himself to his new prisoner, Ranger Jackson quickly followed him through.

Back outside in the October sun, Frank and Mike brainstormed. Preparing a council would pose their first problem. "Why don't we just pick prominent people and make them the jury?" wondered Mike.

"Because the jury should be the people. I'll be the jury. I can represent the people."

"So what about the council of judges?"

"They'll just make sure I'm in line."

"Make sure the jury is in line?"

"No. I'm the prosecution," Frank told him, shocked that he didn't know.

"And the jury?"

"Of course. You'll be the defense counsel."

"But I have no legal training," admitted Mike innocently.

Frank stared long and hard at him. Since their childhood, the two had been close friends. Through school, life in the country outside Arroyo, and then basic training. They had both joined special forces, and Frank had proven to be a natural soldier; moving up the ranks with quick succesion. Mike relied on his sharp wit to stay alive.

"Didn't you get fined for breaking a window in Arroyo during a stickball game?" he asked.

Mike paused, "Yeah, one hundred dollars and community service."

"Did you step in a courtroom for it?" Mike nodded. "There's your legal training."

* * *

One hour and three glasses of whiskey later, the tribunal was in session, and the case of _Knight v. Mojave Outpost_ was being tried. Three judges: Ranger Jackson, Corporal Lee Roberts, and Sergeant Kilborn sat on the top level of a bunk bed. In front of them, two tables had been set up. On their left sat Frank and a random trader he had recruited and filled in; his co-counsel. At the left table, a handcuffed Major Knight sat by Mike. Behind the tables, soldiers and traders alike sat in rows watching the trial unfold.

Ranger Jackson, sitting in the middle of Lee and Kilborrn, banged a tin can on the metal bed frame. "Order in the court!" the spectators hushed. Frank leaned and whispered something to the merchant. "Ladies and gentlement, this is a trial of the state. I will not tolerate any tomfoolery, or else you will be thrown in with Major Communist here. The prosecution may now state its case!" he banged the can again.

Frank rose, shuffled a few papers, and walked to the center of the room. The trader, in a sudden spasm of asthma, coughed violently. The shuffled papers fell in a clutter to the floor, and revealed that they were blank. Frank stared wide-eyed as did his co-counsel. Awkward silence prevailed, before Frank muttered, "Toss me that," and pointed to his briefcase. The merchant reached into the open case and produced a bottle of wine. He tossed it underhanded to Frank, who popped the cork and took a few swigs. Burping, he began his statement.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I bring evidence that will prove, undoubtedly, that Major Knight is, indeed, a communist of the sort our country hates. These are the facts of the case: as we all know, the major keeps a 'log' of sorts in that cramped broom closet of his. And, everyday without fail, he presides over that counter in the administration building, asking people to log certain things in his 'log.'"

Hesitating, Frank glanced to his partner, who produced Major Knight's log. "Upon further inspection of this document, I have found that this log does indeed contain many people information, including everyone's in this room! It shows weapon and ammo checkouts, clock ins and clock outs, and even food orders. Ladies and gentlemen, this only can mean that Major Knight is looking to use this information against us. He aims to cash in on our checkouts, and plans to redistribute them at a profit either here at the outpost, or at McCarran!"

Mike was on his feet. "Objection your honor, this is speculation, and quite honestly, does not make sense at all. I move to strike this entire statement from the record, immediately! Obviously, the lieutenant is looking to tarnish Major Knight's reputation."

Ranger Jackson considered the facts. "Overruled. We have no record, Mike."

"But sir-"

Frank cut him off. "Sit down, Mike," he sat. "The prosecution calls Major Knight to the stand! Or, since we have no stand, to please just stand."

The prisoner stood, shameless and confused. Frank faced him and the spectators. "Major Knight, how long have you been a communist?"

Major Knight shuffled his feet. "Lieutenant, I am not - and have never been - a communist."

Frank turned to the judges, "The prosecution rests."

Ranger Jackson motioned at Mike, "The defense may now present their case."

Stumbling, Mike stood. Major Knight whispered something at him, and Mike leaned in. They discussed something for a few moments. Meanwhile, Frank hastily wrote something on one of his blank papers.

"Yeah, uh..." began Mike shakily. "I don't really know Major Knight all that well. I think he's pretty nice I guess...I don't think he's a communist. Yeah, I rest."

Faltering, Ranger Jackson mulled over the testimony. Almost inaudible, he breathed, "Riveting..." and then, "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

Coughing loudly, Frank stood and walked to the bunk bed. He handed Ranger Jackson a piece of paper. Ranger Jackson called Major Knight to stand.

"Major Knight," he read, "on the charge of treason against the state, this court finds you not guilty. On the charge of being an uptight jerk, this court finds you guilty as charged. You are now sentenced to keep the log for the remainder of your service in the NCR. Court adjourned," Ranger Jackson banged the tin can, and court ended.

A cheer went up from the spectators. Major Knight was released from the handcuffs, and he nonchalantly shook Mike's hand. He walked over and gave Frank a pat, and retrieved the log book. "Well fought," he said. Frank grunted and frowned at him. The spectators swarmed Mike, lifting him up and carried him out of the trial area. They deposited him at the bar.

Raising his wine bottle, Frank toasted with the merchant. The two drank to a banner across the wall that read "Defenders of the Good Fight."

"That's us, Frank," the merchant said. Upon closer inspection, Frank noticed the man wore a trench coat and carried a .44 magnum revolver. "Fighting the good fight."

"I'll drink to that, any day," agreed Frank. The two drank until they passed out, and when Frank woke up the next morning, the stranger was nowhere to be found.


	5. Debt Collector

Back in November, Daniel awoke under a steakhouse awning; crumpled and beaten. No one had come for him in the night. His good samaritan never showed his face again; that mysterious stranger with the .44 magnum. His duster had been the only thing protecting him from the elements.

When he looked down on his broken body, he realized the Sig Sauer no longer resided in his holster. In fact, the entire belt was gone. Also, his rifle's bolt lever had been jammed backwards.

_Looks like I'm in the market for a weapon_, he decided.

He stretched and popped all the corners of his body. The sticky squirrel stew and the cold water limited his movement, if only by some. The thick rawhide pants probably restricted his movement more than anything.

"Do I really need a weapon? I'm sure not everyone in this town wants to kill me," reflected Daniel to himself. He really had no intention to waste money on a weapon he didn't plan on using, especially because he just wanted to get into Vegas, and if he used that money, how would he? Finally he decided he needed a weapon. After all, people were trying to kill him strangely enough.

Quickly, he started walking. A King, standing across the street near the entrance to their School, saw him. He started, and ran across the street. "Hey, man! Hold up a second!" he yelled. Daniel looked over, groaned, and stopped.

"What do you need?" asked Daniel irritably.

The man stopped a few feet short. He stood in the street; Daniel on the sidewalk. "Look man, sorry about last night and all. The King gets all shook up over you NCR folks, but I guess you aren't that bad. We heard about what you said to them squatters, so here's your pistol back. The rifle is beyond repair, but I figure you won't need a rifle much, if you're staying in Vegas. But if you need anything, my name's Pacer," the greased-up and leather-dud man handed Daniel his Sig Sauer.

"Yeah, thanks, uh...Pacer?" Daniel asked for confirmation. He didn't think he had ever heard a name quite like Pacer. The man nodded. "Thanks and all, but, next time you and your friends make advances like that on me, I think I'll kill you first. Without hesiation," Daniel stared coldly. He holstered the pistol, and walked off down the street and towards the Atomic Wrangler.

Basically, the Atomic Wrangler was a hole in the wall. Only a tall neon sign outside pointed to the door. Other than that, the building had no exterior lighting; just a drab, brown and old structure. The interior reflected the outside boredom.

A few guards stood around, hoping to keep the peace. Daniel sized them up quickly, and figured that, if he needed to, he could take them down. The room the outside door entered to was a large sitting area, with a theater on the left wall. To the right lay the bar and a staircase that led to the upper floors. A woman wearing a black suit and white shirt stood behind the bar. Another man stood next to her, wearing a white seersucker jacket with matching white pants. The suit had faded to a dull gray. Both favored each other, and Daniel guessed they were related.

He walked over to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. The brother (or so he presumed) had taken his order, and looked at him with a skeptical eye. "Boy, it looks like you need some new clothes. I got some stuff in the back; I could give 'em to you if you do me a favor. Pleased to meet you, I'm James Garrett, owner of the Atomic Wrangler with my sister Francine," he extended his hand. Daniel shook it before looking down at his pants and shirt.

"It depends on what the job is," observed Daniel. James brought his coffee, and Francine walked over.

She leaned on the counter. "If you had come in earlier I would've been able to give you the full job. But, I guess you I'll let you take the second half."

Daniel waited and drank his coffee. He guessed some other errand boy had come in and gotten the "first part."

"You see that poor sucker standing by the door?" she lowered her voice to a whisper, and Daniel looked. A man stood leaning against the wall, a cigarette in his mouth. He wore a duster similar to Daniel's, and a small, brown hat that Daniel wasn't sure classified as a top hat, fedora, or cowboy hat. "His name's Caleb McCaffery. We got a tip that he's thinking about ripping us off, and we need someone to take him down when he tries," informed Francine Garrett.

"How do you know?" Daniel asked curiously.

"We caught one of his cohorts, Santiago, talking about it. Apparently, he's going to walk over into the gambling room, pull off some card tricks, and then walk out. Plus he's already racked up a pretty big tab here. And, he's our current debt collector. We think he has been keeping some of the stuff he's collected for himself. Your call, though. All we would need is the money, and his hat. James would give you his clothes, I'd give you a room for the week. We could maybe throw in a few extra caps," she raised her eyebrows in excitement, and Daniel perked up. He was always in the business for a few extra caps.

"Can't I just shoot him now and be done with it?" he asked. Since his sheriff days, he always wanted the easy way out. Daniel was notoriously lazy, especially now that he wasn't the law anymore.

Francine chuckled. "You can, if you want the rest of these guards to gun you down. No, you'll need to keep your eye on him. And maybe if you call him out, then that'll provoke him. Either way, you'll get the payment."

Daniel thought that sounded fair, so he agreed. Uprooting from his post at the bar, he moved into the large seating area in front of the stage. Picking a large cushioned chair that offered a view from McCaffery to the entrance of the casino room.

So, he waited. All day he sat there. The Garretts and their workers kept him fed and continuously brought drinks to him, free of charge. A variety of magazines littered the table in front of him, so he browsed. The ghoul comedian, Hadrian, tried to make a show out of his poor act, but Daniel wasn't a fan.

Finally, eleven o'clock rolled around, and McCaffery made his move.

Just like Francine Garrett had said, he left his wall post, and made his way to the gambling hall. Daniel followed. McCaffery sat at the blackjack table after buying some chips at the bank. Daniel noted a slight bulge inside his right wrist in his duster jacket.

The game began, and the dealer dealt the cards. And so, McCaffery began his trick. He started by using sleight of hand. Every time he wanted to try his luck with a different card, he would flip the two cards he carried, take one from his sleeve in the motion, and hide the card he replaced in his opposite sleeve. The speed astonished Daniel, who had known a few card cheats in his sheriff days. Smiling, he walked back to his chair in the lobby and waited for McCaffery to leave.

Almost two hours passed before he did. Two hours he spent cheating, and when McCaffery cashed in, Daniel could see he carried a considerable amount of change in the pack he wore. Sighing, Daniel stood and walked over to the door. McCaffery was at the opposite end of the bar when he spoke.

"Hold it right there, McCaffery," Daniel told him. "I know you've been cheating in there. And normally I'd be too tired to stop you...but I got hired," he winked at Francine and James behind the bar.

"Kid, I have no idea what you're talking about, so step aside before I make you," ordered McCaffery, who palmed the revolver on his hip. Staring, Daniel thought it was either .357 or .44. Either one would put a quick end to him if he got in the way. Daniel let his right hand slip down to the Sig Sauer in his holster.

"Now, I don't want any trouble. Just hand over the caps, and I'll let you slide."

But McCaffery would have none of it. He drew, but Daniel had already known he would. Drawing a semi-automatic pistol was definitely easier than drawing a revolver; you have less to draw. Daniel cleared his leather half a second before McCaffery cleared his. Sidestepping left, Daniel felt McCaffery's poorly-aimed bullet pass. He took his time in aiming, and fired twice before McCaffery could readjust. The bullets slammed into McCaffery, hitting him square in the chest less than four inches apart. For a long second, Daniel kept his smoking gun trained on McCaffery, who struggled to stand.

After a brief moment, he fell.

Daniel holstered his weapon after ejecting and reloading. Cooly, he walked to the body and rolled him over. Taking the pack, he searched until he found the bag of caps. Counting by tens, he tallied an exact two thousand. He also relieved McCaffery of his revolver and, finally, his hat.

"Nice work," Francine Garrett told him while two guards took the body away. "You're fast with that pistol of yours. Why don't you keep the hat? It suits you. And, you may as well have the caps. We make enough money around here. James, get the man his new duds," she told her brother. James walked to a door behind the bar, and disappeared. Francine still looked at Daniel.

"Those caps can buy a ticket to Vegas. Head over to Mick and Ralph's, on the east side of Freeside. They'll make you a passport."

It took a moment, but Daniel finally realized he was holding his ticket to Vegas. After two days of people wanting to kill him, he was going to get his wish. Vegas, baby. Sitting back down at the counter, Francine filled him a glass of wine. And Daniel smiled.


	6. Nelson

He woke up with his face in sand.

Faintly, Hank remembered falling through the air and before that...a man brutally murdered; the arena and its drums. And his fall from the cliffs. Not a fall...his jump. Hank tried to sit up and groaned when his midsection throbbed. When he made his splash, the current had carried him downriver. Along the way, rapids and rocks slammed his body. And when he finally surfaced against the bank far downriver, he thanked whatever gjod existed, because for his life the only god he had known held the throne and the name of Caesar.

Sputtering,half in and half out of unconsciousness, he clawed himself up on the bank. For a few seconds, Hank lay immobile. If a wanderer had passed, he would have thought the man on the bank had died. While he lay on the ground, Hank started thinking.

The Legion Explorer side of him thought immediately of his next actions. The next hour of his life would be the most important. Walking in the right direction could mean his survival, or his death.

To the west lay the NCR, he knew. Still in his Legion attire, any trained NCR soldier would shoot first and never bother to ask questions. Unless he was an NCR politician, than he would definitely be asked a few questions after he was killed. And then he would have a pamphlet which read "Elect/Re-elect [Politician's Name]!"

In the east, in the direction from whence he had just fallen, Caesar ruled. From the Colorado to Flagstaff, and even into New Mexico Caesar dominated man and beast alike. And currently, Hank considered that the Legion probably considered him an enemy of the state. Caesar never treated enemies of the state nicely, especially when they used to hold the rank of Legion Explorer.

And the north and south was just water, Mojave, and either Utah or Baja. The NCR had Rangers in Baja, Hank knew; earlier this year he explored the land. In the summer it was a nice place. Zion and New Canaan sat in Utah, and Hank knew that was not a good place. Joshua Graham lead some of the tribes there. And Joshua Graham had killed some of his fellow scouts. Hank knew it was Graham because one of the scouts had told him. That same scout had come back with one arm and both legs below the knee missing. The man had been forced to drag himself from Utah back to the Fort.

If he walked east and then south, he could make it to Primm. A raiding party sacked Nipton, but he could easily navigate through the town. Mojave Outpost skirted the highway, right on top of the Long 15, but Hank thought he could walk right past without being detected. Changing clothes would be another problem. His Legion clothes would make him an immediate hostile to any traveler. And he really hadn't the need to kill a man for his clothes. Scavenging any buildings between this beach and who-knew-where would have to suffice.

And so, he woke up with his face buried in sand. For a few seconds, he thought about laying there for eternity. To just lay there and die, after a life committed to walking and exploring? Pure bliss.

Yet, something inside him burned. The memory of the slave in the arena, up against odds and fighting valiantly, stirred up the fire that made him want to fight. He wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to fight for the people who couldn't fight for themselves. And so, he pushed himself off the sand, and walked up the beach.

Cliffs surrounded him, and a narrow trail led up to a shingle, and from that shingle he began his walk west.

The land around him lay flat all around him, in every direction. The cliffs fell away sharply to the Colorado. To his right, jutting rocks which looked like mountains surrounded what he believed to be Camp Forlorn Hope, the NCR outpost closest to the front lines. And he knew that across a valley from Camp Forlorn Hope, lay Legion-controlled Nelson. That was his destination.

When he arrived there, he knew one of two things would happen. Either 1) the Legion would accept him and offer him supplies and other sources of aid, or 2) they would declare him a traitor and crucify him. And Hank figured the second option as more plausible. The Legion had never practiced due process; never would, in Hank's opinion. Back in Flagstaff, a Senate ruled similar to a mob, but Caesar still reigned. The Senate held power when Caesar was away on his warpath.

Hank knew a lot of things. Over the years, he had read many novels and intellectual studies. Caesar forbade the study of books in the Legion. In fact, whenever the Legion moved into an area, he ordered the removal of all works, and burned, similar to Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich, which Hank knew about from reading histories of the Second World War.

Surprisingly, Hank thought he would enjoy sanctuary within the NCR. He believed firmly in laissez-faire, especially after reading Adam Smith's _The Wealth of Nations. _Caesar's totalitarianism and half-wit fascism simply did not work.

Nelson entered his line of vision, directly up a small hill from where he walked. Between two tall rock spire formations, a Legion scout stood with binoculars to his eyes. Hank raised his arm and extended his hand in a flat palm. The scout returned his wave. A tall, wooden scout outpost stood next to him at the crest of the hill.

As he trudged up the hill, Hank reviewed his options. If the word had already gotten out that the top explorer had deserted, he was in for some major trouble. His wet clothes would give him away, including the fact that he had trained the majority of the Legion's scouts. They would know him, for sure.

But if the word had not spread, he would be in the clear for a few hours. Which meant, he needed to act fast.

"Ave, true to Caesar!" the scout announced, as he raised another flat palm and slapped the air when Hank approached.

Hank groaned. Not this shtick again. "Yeah, yeah," he half-heartedly raised a palm. The scout raised an eyebrow and hhmmph-ed.

"Do you not be true to Caesar?" he asked.

"You can't handle the truth," murmured Hank.

"What?" the scout asked, confused.

"Don't worry about it," Hank told him. In addition to reading, Hank had grown fond of Pre-War American cinema. Every tape he found, he found a way to watch. Hank had begun walking towards the center of town. Three crosses manufactured by telephone poles stood in the center; each with an NCR soldier mounted onto it. The scout followed him.

Nelson was a squat town, made up of ramshackle houses and dilapidated barracks buildings. The NCR had occupied the town until recently, when the Legion moved in. A party of fifty legionaries had raided, led by the decanus Dead Sea. The houses had been built with no pattern, they all formed a semi-circle from the three telephone poles. To the east, a cliff fell away to the beaches of the Colorado. To the west, a small plateau rose towards Novac, which surrounded the town on all sides, save the cliff. Hank thought he saw a man on top of the plateau next to the road loading east, holding a rifle. However, he couldn't be sure. Finally, with the scout in tow, Hank reached the center of town.

"True to Caesar!" the scout shouted again.

"Yeah, yeah," Hank muttered again.

"Do you not be true to Caesar?"

Hank stopped. "No, I am not. Now, quit asking me, and quit saying that! Caesar is just an angry, bald, short man with a computer on his wrist!"

A collective gasp arose from everywhere, all at once. Legionaries poured from the town's small buildings. The scout stepped back a few paces. "You dare dishonor the almight Caesar, and his powerful displacer glove!" The resident decanus, Dead Sea, stepped slowly from a building. He eyed Hank from behind black goggles and the trademark red face wrap.

"Who is this?" he roared. Hank gulped.

The scout stepped forward, and pointed. "He has dishonored the name of Caesar!" followed by another gasp from everyone.

Dead Sea stared - or at least Hank thought he did. A second scout stepped out of the house behind Dead Sea, and whispered something in his ear. "You must be sure," he replied. The scout nodded, and Dead Sea became silent.

"Are you Apollo, lead Explorer of the Legion?" Hank nodded. "And did you, earlier tonight, jump off of the cliff, therefore deserting your post?" Hank nodded again. "And have you dishonored the name of Caesar?"

At once, every legionary in Nelson slapped the air with a palm and shouted, "Ave, true to Caesar!"

"You are now the Legion's enemy, and our enemy!" Dead Sea shouted. The legionaries yelled and raised their rifles, machetes, and spears into the air.

Hank didn't pay attention; he had begun running. East, down the small path in between two collapsed houses. The air around him erupted, and the wind whipped his clothes. Bullets slammed the frameworks of houses he passed, and chopped the dirt under him. He turned right around the corner of another house, then left, staying eastward. The fifty legionaries had started walking when they noticed he had, and were filling the streets as a collective mob; led by Dead Sea.

A few legionaries followed the turns Hank had taken, and saw him running down the lines of houses two rows over from the plateau wall. They tailed him, firing occasionally. The remainding force continued down the street, shouting and shooting along the way.

Hank ducked as a bullet slammed an overhanging roof he had run under. At the next corner he turned left, back towards the main street. A low stone fence made a square in the space between two houses, and Hank guessed that before the Great War, it had contained a garden. He slid over the top and rolled into a prone position. The raucous happenings grew closer as the mob marched down the street, growing close. Bullets pelted houses around him, throwing bits of dust, brick, and wood everywhere. Hank, crouched up against the wall bordering the street, knew they hadn't seen him. He was worried about the few that had followed him around the houses.

The mob passed moments later, nearly fifty legionaries walking and searching for their prey. For a second, the madness ceased as Dead Sea called attention. Hank's heart jumped into his throat; he had been made.

"Did anyone see where he went?" Dead Sea asked the crowd.

"No," one legionary spoke, "I thought we were just walking and having a good time."

"Yeah!" said another. "Who're we looking for?"

"That guy!" someone answered. "Remember? The one who said Caesar's displacer glove was a computer."

"Oh! Him? I think he went down this street somewhere."

"Then we must continue down the street!" Dead Sea yelled, and the gig was on again. The mob moved down the street, shouting and shooting and making miscellaneous noises.

Hank breathed a sigh of relief, and slumped down until he was flat on the ground. Dusting himself off, he stood up and walked back to the back street he had come. As he passed a corner, two men jumped him. One lunged, knocking him off of his feet. Twisting, Hank unraveled himself from the man's grasp and kicked out with his boot, kicking him in the chest. His attacker fell back, and Hank rolled forward and into the next man, who had been raising a nine millimeter pistol. Hank swatted the gun aside a let loose a quick barage of punches.

The pistol skittered away on the ground, and Hank dove for it. The legionary he kicked had regained his composure and rolled towards the gun on the ground. Hank was quicker, scooped it into his hands, and fired two quick shots at the man near his feet. The bullets struck the man in the neck, and blood squirted as the jugular vein popped. Hank wheeled around and shot twice more at the other, striking him in the chest. He slumped and joined his friend. And Hank stood at the gift-wrapping end of the pistol, and listened. He heard the sounds of silence.

He had been made.


End file.
